“Every decision you make is last-minute, Benjamin. You’re nothing if not spontaneous.”
Well, she had him on that one. His spontaneity was how he’d ended up with Maggie, how he’d forced his way into her apartment—and her life—without even knowing why he was doing it. Look how that turned out, though. He’d fallen in love, sure, but he’d also cost Maggie her job, her dreams and her privacy.
So much for being spontaneous.
“So, what have you done?” Miranda asked as she poured a tall glass of milk and set it on the splintered cedar counter in front of him.
“What makes you think I did something?”
She chuckled, then slid two fluffy oven mitts on her hands and removed a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven rack. “You’ve got guilt written all over your face,” she tossed over her shoulder, setting the baking tray on the stove to cool. “And please don’t tell me you got another tattoo. One is enough.”
“No tattoos.” He released the sigh lodged in his chest. “I fell in love, Mom.”
The kitchen went so silent you could hear not one, but thirty pins drop on the tiled floor. Gaping, his mother turned to face him.
“Seriously?”
He nodded glumly. “Seriously.”
After another second of bewilderment, his mother’s dark blue eyes lit up like a string of Christmas lights. She whipped off her oven mitts, marched over, and rested her palms on the counter. “Tell me everything,” she ordered with a huge grin.
He told her. About Maggie. About the hotel room mishap that threw them together (though he did leave out the details of what happened during that room mishap). He finished with the entire paparazzi mess and Maggie’s request that he leave, ending with, “So basically, I screwed up her life.”
He let out a groan and reached for the milk in front of him, feeling like a little kid again as he sipped the cold liquid.
“You didn’t screw up her life,” Miranda soothed. “It will all settle down sooner or later.”
“Yeah, until the next scandal hits the newsstands.” He tightened his grip on his glass, then, fearing it would shatter, set it down gently. “Maggie doesn’t want to be part of my lifestyle, Mom. She doesn’t want that kind of attention.”
Miranda assumed that knowing look of wisdom he’d grown used to over the years. “The only reason you receive that kind of attention, Benjamin, is because you go out looking for it.”
“I certainly do not.”
“Sure you do.” She shrugged at his indignant frown. “You date floozies, my dear son. And when you date floozies, the media likes to take pictures of you with your floozies.”
“Stop saying floozies,” he grumbled.
“Don’t sulk, sweetheart. You know I’m right.”
Fine, so maybe his mother had a point. There were plenty of other celebrities, actors far more famous than him, who didn’t find their faces splashed across the tabloids every week. Ben didn’t go out and solicit the media’s attention, but he could see his mom’s point. The women he dated were gorgeous, flashy, demanding to be noticed. Like Sonja, who ought to be wearing a sign that said ‘notice me, take my picture’.
“This Maggie sounds very down to earth,” his mother added. “And I don’t mean this as an insult, but she also seems like the type who wouldn’t make the media drool. They need teeny-bikini models to sell covers, not your average Jane type. She’s too normal for those jerks.”
Ben smiled. “You’re right about that.” His expression quickly sobered. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that they’re still all over me. Especially ever since Gretchen died.”
He almost flinched, expecting to see sorrow—and maybe a bit of anger—in his mother’s eyes, but she surprised him. Looking serious, she crossed her arms over her apron and said, “Tell the truth already, Benjamin. Tell them about Gretchen and your father.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I’d never do anything to embarrass you, Mom.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “You’re embarrassing me now, for God’s sake! Everyone in town thinks my son goes to bed with women twice his age. The other day, Susan pulled me aside in the drugstore and suggested you go into therapy.”
Ben couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re lying.”
“I certainly am not! Call Susan yourself. I’m sure she has a list of therapists written up.”
“So you honestly don’t care if I tell the world Dad was a bigamist and a thief?”
“Of course not.” Her aristocratic features softened. “Ben, I’ve come to terms with what your father did. In fact, I came to terms with it a long time ago. You don’t need to protect me from it.”
“What about the money?”
“What about it?”
“I don’t feel right keeping it,” he confessed.